Apparently, I have a masochistic streak. A mean one. Yesterday, at the urging of my good friend Al and my chaplain, I finally finished The Shack. Which prompted a panic attack at the thought of my children getting lost at the circus and me asking my parents not to take them. There isn’t quite enough drama in our lives so I had to throw that in. Hopefully, my four year old will be able to understand that mommy is just paranoid somewhere in all the therapy she’s going to require from grow up with us as parents (there’s more, just wait).

The second worst thing I did was my hubby and I decided to watch Marley and Me. Now, for those of you that know us, you know we have very special dogs. Special being the operative word. Watching Marley was like watching our Robbie, running away down the beach, destroying the house and yes, watching the poop (popsicle sticks in our case, not necklaces). 

So why is this a bad thing? I started crying at the opening credits and really let it go by the end. I cried while laughing my ass off over that dog. Robbie is no longer with us, which made the end of that move especially rough.

Now, I’m sitting in my CHU with two Dr Pepper cans up to my eyes, trying to get the swelling to go down. My husband is bringing me back dinner so I didn’t have to go in public. I look like I’ve been beat up (crying jags will do this). Watching Marley, while missing your kids and your pets: Worst Idea Ever. Loved the movie. Loved it. Still Worst Idea.